Going Forth Alone
by Amethyst2
Summary: A certain Slytherin learns that sometimes two people, namely our hero and Malfoy, can see two different situations the same way.
1. "I Stand In Crowds Of People"

Untitled _All day I hear the noise of waters   
Making moan   
Sad as the sea-bird is, when going   
Forth alone,   
He hears the winds cry to the waters'   
Monotone   
The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing,   
Where I go,   
I hear the noise of many waters   
Far below,   
All day, all night, I hear them flowing   
To and fro._

The poem stood out at me the moment I read it. A Muggle author, of course; even though I hated the foul breed, they were the only ones who knew how to produce deep, emotional poetry. Even my most meaningful attempts only ended in stupidity. But some Muggle poets almost moved me to tears. 

Almost. 

"The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing, where I go," I whispered out loud. Gee, that sounded a lot like Malfoy Manor. My home. Cold winds blew all the time outside of it. It was constantly storming there; my father said it made the house more intimidating and dark. Darkness is good. 

I love the darkness. Light is so garish at times, so revealing and open and bright. No secrets in the light, no lies, nothing to hide behind. Darkness lets you be who you really are without any fear, or guilt. 

The guilt was the worst, of course. I had lately been feeling guilty for many things. 

But I didn't want to think about that. Thinking along those lines just made me more and more depressed. 

"All day I hear…" The poet, James Joyce, wasn't just talking about the ocean, of course. I somehow identified with the emotion, and the sweeping sound rushing over a soul, monotonous and dark. 

I read the poem out loud again, and as I read the wind started to pick up, rustling the pages of the old book of Muggle poems, and stirring the waters of the lake, almost as if to emphasize the words. I was sitting under the old willow tree by the lake. Not the Whomping Willow, of course, but just a regular tree. A weeping willow. We didn't have any willows at our house; my father thought the name suggested weakness. We hate anything to do with weakness and sadness. 

At least, he does. But sometimes, when I'm all alone, when not one other person in the world understands why I read and write poetry and stare at the lake in the twilight, like tonight, I wish I was allowed to be weak. Maybe I would feel more real. 

I heard footsteps suddenly, and leapt to my feet. I had to hide! No one could find me here, not alone, not like this, and _especially_ not reading Muggle poetry. If my father knew, he would kill me. Literally. 

Nowhere to hide in the open lawns between here and the castle. Two choices: into the lake or up the tree. Not fancying walking back to the castle with sopping robes, I chose the latter, and leaped for the lowest branch. 

I hugged the rough bark, trying to keep as still as possible. 

Then, of all the people at the school, Harry Potter walked under the tree, my tree, and sat down, staring at the lake. 

I felt like swearing out loud. I probably would have, too, if I hadn't been terrified that Potter would look up. He'd brag to Granger and Weasley about how the great Draco Malfoy had been hiding in a tree. 

Speaking of the Weasel and the Mudblood, where were they? Potter never went anywhere without his entourage. I'd at least expect the star struck younger Weasley, or boot-licking Creevey, to be with him. I gaped in sarcastic surprise; could Potter actually survive without his adoring public? 

He just sat there for quite some time, not moving, not doing anything. I started to wonder if perhaps he'd fallen asleep. Then, I saw him turn his head. His eyes widened as he stared at something on the ground. 

Damn! DAMN! My book! I started mouthing curses to myself. How could I be so idiotic? DAMN! He opened right to the page I had been reading! DOUBLE DAMN! A poem I had been working on was _ right there._

I watched, fists and teeth clenched, nearly pounding on the tree with rage, as he started to look at "All Day I Hear." Then, to my surprise, he started to read it aloud. 

"_All day…_" He paused. Then, in a softer, rhythmic voice, "_All day I hear the noise of waters, making moan, Sad as the sea-bird is when going forth alone, He hears the winds cry to the waters' monotone._" I raised my eyebrows- Potter had a good sense of meter. 

What was I saying? He was the Enemy, for god's sake! I hated him! I prayed for him to be afflicted with a painful and lingering illness every night before I went to bed! I wasn't allowed to admire him in any way. My father had told me to always be alert for him to display any weakness. If I found a weakness in him, he would be undone. The Dark Lord would win. 

And yet, I never found a weakness. And I admired that in him. No one expected him to be perfect, and yet he was. I, on the other hand… 

He ran his fingers across the page for a minute. I could sense he was mouthing the words to himself. After all, I had done that only moments before. 

And then, to my complete and absolute horror, he picked up the parchment I had been scribbling on, and started to read. 

"_I stand in crowds of people, all united,   
And yet, I know that I must stand alone,   
In their circle, but somehow above it,   
Rising up above their monotone.   
I can see around my world of people,   
But within I must forever be,   
I must live within a crowd of people,   
Always crushed, but always only me._" 

I winced at each line. What had sounded so deep and true only moments ago now sounded unbelievably corny. Thankfully I hadn't signed my name to it, or even used my normal tight and rigid handwriting, but a more open block printing I had nearly forgotten. And yet… if Potter just looked straight up, he'd know who had written the poem. And, of course, he'd show it to his stupid friends, and they'd all laugh at it. Then the whole school would laugh at me. When the other Slytherins found out, they'd tell my father, who would punish me. I still had scars from the last time he had caught me with something Muggle: a football given to me by an ex-friend. 

I was so involved in my fears that I didn't even notice that Potter had picked up my pen and was writing before he finished, gave a heaving sigh, stood up slowly and walked back toward the castle. I watched him in the sunset, walking away, wondering what the hell he was playing at. Why hadn't he taken the book, or the poem, with him? What had he written? Why- 

I realized that none of my questions would be answered unless I just read whatever he'd written. 

I hung from the branch for a moment, then dropped down, landing gently on my feet. Then, hesitating only a moment, I picked up the parchment. 

Underneath my round block printing was Potter's chicken scratch writing, in several lines. After making sure he was well out of sight, I settled back to read what he had put down. 

"_I stand in crowds of people, all expecting,   
Their sights are higher than I'll ever be,   
I side with them, but somehow I'm not with them,   
Because they want a hero, not just me.   
I can see so many shining faces,   
Even good friends blend in monotone,   
I must be above them, and yet with them,   
And so, by force of fate, I stand alone._" 

I read the poem over and over again. How in the world he had finished what I had started, I would never figure out. How in the world we could both see our completely different situations from the same plane, I'll never know. 

A thought occurred to me briefly; Potter's weakness. I could send this verse to Voldemort, who'd know that Potter was lonely. He thought that he was separate from his friends, somehow. 

Or, if I didn't send it to Voldemort, I could just sign his name to it and let Snape read it aloud in front of the next double Slytherin-Gryffindor Potions class. He'd be humiliated, and he wouldn't even have to know it was me who wrote the first verse. It would be the perfect way to get at him. 

The perfect revenge. 

I read the poem once more. To Snape or to Voldemort, I could ruin Potter's life. Or end it. All I had to do… 

I took three quick steps to the sandy edge of the lake, and let go of the piece of parchment. The gentle breeze picked it up, and, as if it could read my thoughts and do my bidding, carried it to the very center of the pond. I watched the ink run out of the paper as it sank deeper and deeper into the water. 

I picked up my book, and walked back to the castle. 


	2. "Keep Yourself Safe"

Untitled **Chapter Two**

I watched Potter check his watch nervously. He couldn't see me, of course, and he wouldn't see me unless he decided to suddenly turn the corner. Normally, I might have been nervous about hanging around the Gryffindor common room, especially when it appeared that I was stalking the famous Harry Potter, but right now it was Christmas break, and most of the Gryffindors were at home with their families- most of the Slytherins too, but not as many, because most of my house members didn't celebrate Christmas. 

Then, as a clock somewhere chimed three times, Potter took a last look around the hall- I ducked back so he wouldn't see my head peeping out at him around the corner- he took off at a rather quick pace, grabbed a seemingly random doorknob, and disappeared through it. 

I didn't have to follow him, I already knew exactly where he was going. The lake. My willow tree. 

Ever since that one fateful day, it had been almost routine for us both. I'd write something, and leave it under the south side of the trunk of my tree. Potter would walk out there at three in the afternoon to read it, and after a while of thoughtful meditation, write something else. He didn't always finish what I wrote: sometimes he would just write a note of encouragement. I had destroyed all of our notes except one. 

Even after discovering that Potter somehow felt the same way I did, I had been contemplating suicide. My father had even suggested it. "Draco, a Malfoy either lives up to his name or dies trying." Then, with a meaning look at me, "Death can be just as honorable as life, only without pain." 

I had taken it as the clue my father had meant: if you can't make me proud of you, then go away. 

Knowing that Potter still had no idea who was leaving him the phantom poetry, I had written something about how death seemed rather inviting. And it did. Knowing that I had become -even anonymously- a confidante of Potter's was being a traitor. I couldn't betray my father or the Dark Lord. I just couldn't. But I was starting to wonder if I should side with them, starting to doubt that their power was the best thing to serve. And so, I had written several lines about how death was better than a decision, and that death was better than being afraid of life. 

I still had the parchment with his scrawl across it. I looked at it often, and it helped me somehow. 

_It's never too late to make a choice. Keep yourself safe as long as possible. Death won't do anyone any good; better to make a mistake and live with it than die before you can change things. _

He was right. I could always play along with Voldemort, not doing anything suspicious, until I had made a decision. No need to end my life just yet. I could always do it later. 

I thought it was pretty understanding of Potter to not advise me to run to the Ministry and become a Muggle Rights Activist, or something equally corny. He knew I had to make the decision for myself. 

And he still didn't even know who I was. I wondered if he'd keep it up, even if he knew that the one writing to him was his worst enemy. 

Once, he'd tried to find out who I was. I hadn't known before that day that Potter had an invisibility cloak. Fortunately, I had decided to watch him as he wrote, from a safe distance. After he had written something, I saw him take a piece of what looked like liquid silver, silken reflection, and slip it over his shoulders. 

That explained a lot of things, especially the "hallucination" I had seen in Hogsmeade several years ago. 

I waited twenty minutes, then, after checking to make sure Potter was safely back in the Gryffindor room, walked down to the lake. 

My beautiful, peaceful lake. My writing spot. Mine. 

There, under the tree, weighted down by some rocks, were my notes. 

_They say the pen is mightier than the sword,   
But I know that the tongue rules over all,   
Words, written or spoken, can sometimes save you,   
Or words can be your greatest downfall,   
A chance word, spoken, without careful thought,   
Could be a knife inside your chest,   
Better silence, blessed silence,   
Than a word of irretrievable death. _

Underneath, in a heavier hand, 

_A shell of silence may be the answer,   
For one chance word brings hurt and shame,   
Strength inside can best be proven,   
When words can't be used as blame. _

I nodded as I read. Sometimes Potter disagreed with whatever I'd written, and sometimes, like now, he agreed, or at least empathized. Now I knew what caused that retarded aura that Potter always carried with him; he wasn't stupid, he was just too smart to run his mouth. A lot of people thought there was something wrong with him, especially because of the glasses, and his being silent most of the time didn't help much. Even the first day I'd met him, he had kept quiet about the things he knew nothing about, which made me assume he was something that he wasn't. Pretty smart, actually. It had taken me several years, and several dozen beatings, to figure that out. Silence, as the Muggles say, is golden. 

I don't know why I keep up our "correspondence." Sometimes I tell myself it's to lure him into a false sense of security so that I can later humiliate him. Sometimes I say that I just enjoy poetry. Sometimes I tell myself that I'm just plain going insane, and this is one way I'm proving it. 

But deep down, I know that it's nice to have someone to talk to. 

We probably could have gone on like this forever. But of course, nothing this strange could stay the same forever. 


	3. "Going Forth Alone"

Untitled **Chapter Three**

One thing I had decided to myself: Potter could never, ever know who was sending him those notes. I had said too many things, told him too much. If he ever found out if was me writing all those things, then he'd know… everything. And I had no doubt that he'd tell someone. Be it Dumbledore, Lupin, or the Mudblood or Weasley, he would tell someone the things I'd said. I couldn't risk that. 

And yet… I wanted him to know. I had stopped going out of my way to get at him and his friends, ever since that day. Life for both of us was already hard enough. Me with no friends worth speaking of, and Potter with no friends who truly understood; neither of us needed a bitter enemy. 

Not that I'm friends with him or anything. I am not his friend. I don't admire him. I don't empathize with him. My fondest wish is for his painful death. 

My mantra. I chant it every night before I write my father my daily letter of report, and again before I go to sleep. And yet, the next morning, it's forgotten, and all I can think about is what Potter had written on my parchment, out by my tree. 

The night before, I had written something odd on our parchment. For once, I hadn't been able to come up with a poem. So, instead, for some insane reason, _"I know who you are."_

I was my dorm room, lying on my bed, reading his reply. 

_I don't know who you are. I don't care. Finding somebody who…_ There was a break in the words, and I could almost see Potter biting his lip as he tried to come up with something to say. _I'm sure you understand. I don't know who you are. But I know that whoever you are, I'd never be able to guess. You can keep a secret too well. You are so deep that you can bury your identity and nobody will ever be able to find it._ I supposed that was a compliment. _I don't want to know who you are. But I don't want this to end, either. Maybe poetry isn't supposed to be a hero's forte, but it's so controlled. _

I knew what he meant. Being able to put feelings into the boundaries of a poem, a real poem not "free verse" which is just uncontrolled emotion, which doesn't help the reader or the writer. 

_What happens after? After school ends, after everything… ends. You know who I am, so you know that my friends, Ron and Hermy, will be gone. I can write letters, but what can I tell them? I am so relieved to find somebody who can look at things the exact same way I do, without the focus being on looking from my point of view. I know I'm making no sense, but I'm not feeling very sensible right now. What do you think? I know you'll have to go home, home to people who don't understand you, just like me. What will happen after all this ends? What happens after? _

If Ron and Hermione ever find out I'm trusting a stranger more than I'm trusting them, they'd hate me. 

And if they ever found out you were trusting Draco Malfoy more than them, they'd kill you. 

Then again, if my parents found out that Harry Potter trusted me, they'd kill you too. They'd use me to kill you. 

If they found out I trusted you, we'd both be dead. 

I scribbled on the back of the paper. 

_It's a good question that has no answer. Everything will end. It's just a question of when and how. _

I left the parchment out by the tree, and went to breakfast with muddy shoes and cloudy thoughts. 

  
_What happens when it ends?   
Do we go back to where it began?   
Back before we both ran,   
Away from all the rainstorms send?   
Do we give up hope of laughter,   
Do we start the whole thing over,   
Or become a dark world rover,   
Wondering what happens after? _

I was sitting in the hall, scribbling down something pointless. Potter's phrasing had struck something in me, something that needed to be written down. Potter could do it better than I could. I was better at finding force behind the poem, but Potter was better at shaping it. If that makes any sense. 

Potter and his friends walked by at that moment. And I'll swear to anyone who listens, I was planning on ignoring them. Weasley, however, was already looking my way and grinning wickedly. 

"Whatcha doing, Malfoy? Looking for friends among the other beetles?" 

"Ron, don't provoke him!" Granger hissed. 

I stood up. "You have something to say to me, Weasel? Better say it now, you can't afford the paper it would take to owl it to me." 

"I'd rather have no money at all no brains or no friends," he said. I felt a sting at his last words, but brushed it off. 

"Too bad you have all three. Oh, I forgot, you've got the Mudblood and Golden Boy Potter to pity you, which I suppose counts as friendship. Two outta three isn't bad, though." 

Weasley started towards me. "Say that again, you little bastard." 

"I don't repeat myself for Weasels. Waste of good air." 

He lunged at me, but both Potter and Granger dropped what they were carrying to grab at him before he got more than a step or two. 

I smirked as, with a scowl so dark it would've taken a rather large torch to lighten it, Weasley turned and started to help his friends pick up their books and papers. "Temper, temper, Weasel. Wouldn't want to get another Howler from Mommy-Frumpikins, now would you?" 

Granger laid a hand on Weasley's, and he didn't turn around. I snickered. Poor Weasley, couldn't realize that he had absolutely nothing on me, and any time he tried to insult me I could fling it back at him ten times worse. 

As I turned away, I heard Granger ask, "Harry, what's this?" 

A cold hand ran a finger down my spine as Granger started to read, "I don't know who you are, I don't care." 

I whirled around and saw Harry, looking very pale, yelped, "Give me that!" while thrusting his hand forward to snatch the paper much as he tried to grab the golden Snitch. 

Granger moved out of his grasp, and kept reading. "Finding somebody who-" She started to read silently. 

"Got it!" Harry snatched it from her hands. 

"Harry, did I see my name on there?" 

"What is it, Harry?" Weasley butted in. 

"I don't know," Granger replied, as Harry didn't seem to be responding, "but I saw our names on there. What is it, Harry?" 

"Let me see!" Weasley tried to grab it from Harry, who held it behind his back. Granger was grabbing for it, though, and he'd lose it within minutes. 

If Granger and Weasley read that, they'd realize that he didn't trust them. And he wouldn't have any friends at all. We wouldn't be in the same position anymore, he'd be worse off. I don't know if I felt sorry for him, or if I just didn't want to have to feel sorry for him. 

"That's mine," I said cooly. 

"Is not!" All three of them chimed at once, Harry looking even more horrified at the thought of "The Evil Draco Malfoy" reading his most personal thoughts. 

_"I hear the noise of many waters,   
Making moan,   
Sad as the sea bird is when going   
Forth alone." _

His eyes widened as I spoke. I didn't dare look at Granger or Weasley, for fear what they thought would scare me out of saying what had to be said. 

"It's time to 'go forth alone,' Potter." 

Harry's eyes met mine for a moment. His weren't filled with shock, as I had expected, but just mild surprise. Then, after a moment, he nodded. "I thought so." 

"What the heck?" Weasley asked, as Harry reached over both their heads, not an easy task as Ron was at least three inches taller than him, and handed me the piece of paper. I shoved it in my pocket, never breaking eye contact with him. 

"It's over." 

"Yes." He agreed. 

I turned and walked away. 

And, with Weasley and Granger following, pestering him with questions that would never be answered, so did he. 

_A/N: Hiya everyone. Hope you liked it. yep, it's all done. Write your own ending, if you like. Gomen nasai for those who don't like my ending, but consider: I wasn't going to write a second chapter when I posted the first one. My first Draco-centric fic! I'm so happy!<:') Yes, all poems are mine, except for the "Many Waters" thing. If you really, really like them, "Ask and ye shall be given, seek and ye shall find, knock and the door shall be opened to you." Take the poems. But ask first. _

Please review! 


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